A Reliable Bin Man
by SamCyberCat
Summary: Clive is broken out of prison by a madman who is convinced that he can use him to get revenge on Layton.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** Written for a kinkmeme prompt that wanted a specific AU, starting with Descole breaking Clive out of prison. This one is well outside my usual comfort zone, but I figured that if I was going to do the fanon Descole prompts at all, I should do them before PL6 comes out and reveals what ultimately happens to him. So, this is set a while post-PL3, with heavy spoilers for the third game, and ignores whatever PL6 will say about what happens to Descole.

* * *

Clive promised to atone for his sins to society.

Considering that said sins involved kidnapping the Prime Minister, wiring his heart up to a giant mechanical fortress, using said fortress to destroy half of London, costing many lives as he did so and all while performing illegal experiments on animals using scientists whom he'd also kidnapped, that was a heck of a lot to atone for.

Realistically, it wasn't likely that he would ever be able to do this. Especially considering his life now consisted of a prison cell that was heavily monitored, by request of the Prime Minister, lest Clive get him again. No, with how his life looked, the only way he could even try to make up for his mistakes was by staying in his cell, where he couldn't hurt anyone.

Which wasn't much in the way of atonement.

He'd always known that was how it was going to be. From the moment Bill Hawks had yelled for his arrest, he could picture it clearly. After that, he'd said to Layton more than what was probably sensible – about how he'd needed the man to save him from himself, and then he made a hopeless promise to make up to society for what he'd done. Even though it was a pathetic pledge, it seemed like the right thing to say, if only to take a little away from all the other horrible things that had happened that day. Things that had happened because of him.

There were many days when he regretted his words, along with everything else he had done; but regardless of if he was atoning or refusing to atone, it all resulted in the same fate – being in this cell.

He sighed, glancing towards a small window in the door. The window that was his only glimpse into the outside world.

Of course, he had been sent to solitary. It would have been too much of a risk to have a dangerous mind like his running around, potentially talking to people who he could influence. So Clive was trapped in his little cell, with only humourless guards to keep him company.

Out of habit, more than anything else, Clive had picked up the shifts of the guards within a few weeks of being there. They tried to keep it varied enough so that he wouldn't, but overtime it became easy to pick up on who would turn up at what times and how much of a gap there'd be between them. Because the guards were, at the end of the day, human. Despite that they were officially supposed to be silent, guards would talk to each other enough for Clive to hear little details, like how Sandra never worked later than 4:00pm, because she had kids that she needed to collect from school, or how old Sean had a bit of a limp, which meant that he did the rounds slower than everyone else (Clive had calculated it to be four minutes slower, give or take a few seconds) and how, even though he'd get sacked if he got caught, that smarmy new guy, Andrew, would always show up ten minutes late when he knew there wasn't anyone around to inspect him. And considering that he worked evenings, this was most of the time.

Snippets of information like that were all that Clive needed in order to spot the windows of opportunity where he could have left the cell, had he the means to do so, without being caught. Naturally, he didn't want to leave, as his promise to Layton still weighed heavy on his mind. But had he wanted to, he possessed the knowledge, if not the means, to do so.

He'd heard that Andrew boy whining to another guard earlier that old man Sean was taking over from him and would probably complain about the mess he'd left in the office again. Andrew didn't think the abuse he got from Sean was at all justified, but then he never did. What Andrew felt about his co-worker's treatment of him was of no concern to Clive. The aspect that was of concern to him was that Andrew would undoubtedly wander back to the office ten minutes early and that Sean would lecture him for at least two minutes, before taking another four to limp from the office down to where Clive was. It wasn't a long journey, but Sean's leg was getting even worse as the winter crept in. That was a minimum of sixteen minutes where he was completely unguarded.

Again, had he been a lesser man and had a plan prepared, that would have been ample time for him to escape his cell.

On exactly the cue that he'd predicted, Andrew marched away, ten minutes before the end of his shift, so he could lounge in the office for a bit. He moved at a considerably faster speed than the one he used when arriving to start work. They all knew Clive never spoke to any of them or did anything, after all, so what harm could come of leaving him alone for a little while? He'd have to get through the office to get out even if he could leave the cell, so they'd catch him anyway.

The sound of the office door clicked shut behind the lazy guard and Clive mentally began to count the seconds off the amount of time he was wasting.

He'd got up to twelve seconds when he heard the coughing.

These weren't the muffled coughs of one of Andrew's many colds, these were very definite, "Help, I'm choking!" sort of coughs. Pity for him no one else would be along for another ten minutes.

There was an alarm in the office. Clive didn't need to see it in order to know it was there. Because they wouldn't put you in your own special section of prison if it didn't have a bell they could ring if you did something wrong. An attention-seeking slouch like this guard seemed the most likely candidate to sound the alarm if anything went even slightly wrong. So it didn't make sense that he hadn't done just that.

It made more sense when the power cut out and Clive's cell, along with the corridor outside, were plunged into darkness.

Soon after this, the coughing stopped entirely.

Clive stood up, looking out through the little window in his door, towards the office. He could make out faint wisps of smoke edging out through the cracks in the office door.

He heard a quiet breath, something that its owner had been unable to hide in their effort to make their footsteps unheard. Clive supposed that if he'd just walked out of an office filled with smoke, he'd want to take a breath as well.

"Impressive, if I do say so myself," came the deep voice of someone who was now very definitely standing directly outside of Clive's cell. From the sound of it, this person made a habit of being impressed with themselves.

"Why are you trying to break me out?" Clive asked.

There was no point in asking what this person was doing, because they really couldn't have been doing anything other than trying to get him out of here. No one would go to the length of gassing a security guard just to visit him. He also didn't feel the need to ask who they were, because from how self-satisfied this person sounded, they'd probably let him know soon enough anyway.

"I may be here just to gloat," commented his uninvited guest.

"This is a lot of effort to go to just to gloat at someone," replied Clive, "And if that's the case, you don't have much time to do it before the next guard arrives."

"So very impatient, I see. It's a wonder you're the same person who worked for years to craft an underground city just to fool Layton," tutted the voice, "But I suppose that, if the situation were reversed, I'd be eager to get out as well."

"That's where you're wrong, I'm not eager. I don't want to get out of here," he corrected.

A snort; "Really? Are you honestly such a simpleton as to believe that you can ever make up for what you did? You can stay here for the rest of your life, but society will never forgive you."

That hit a little too close to home with what Clive had been thinking all this time.

"If that is all I can do, then that is what I will do," Clive insisted.

"How very noble. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to listen to you come to terms with yourself," sneered his guest.

There was the sound of movement, a faint swish that may well have been a cape scraping across the floor as its owner bent down. The sound of something being clicked into place around the lock was undeniable.

"I'd step back, if I were you," warned the guest.

There wasn't much space within Clive cell, but he certainly made to do so. Regardless of whether he wanted to get out of here or not, he very much didn't want to get hurt by whatever it was that had been attached to the lock.

Unfortunately for him, the back of the cell wasn't far enough of a distance to not be impacted by the explosion when the door blew open. He smacked against the wall, gritting his teeth at the stinging pain that resounded around his skull. His body slumped down to the floor. Every fibre of his being demanded that he got up, to get away from whoever was approaching him. However, his legs didn't appear to be listening to these commands and his consciousness was listening to less of anything as each second past.

Clive felt a hand reach forward to grab him. The pale skin of the hand was about the only thing that he could see, as whatever else the kidnapper was wearing clashed with the black of the cell.

So much went through his mind during that moment. But his body wasn't listening and wouldn't fight back. About the only thing he could do was close his eyes and stop thinking.

He had no choice but to take that particular course of action.

Blacking out was something that Clive resented having done when he later awoke. Perhaps so much could have gone differently, if only he'd been able to fight the stranger. Although, without being able to stand up, perhaps being awake would have only meant that he had to observe his own kidnapping.

On a selfish level, it might have been better that he'd slept through it.

Also on a selfish level, he growled in frustration to realise that he couldn't move his right leg.

Ignoring this, he glanced at his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, but he knew that any good kidnapper wouldn't have wanted him to. And from what he'd seen this person do so far, Clive figured that they were good at planning ahead.

So, he was in a boarded up room with no furniture or carpet. The windows were covered to stop him from seeing outside, but there was a definite linger of flour in the air. The ceiling was close and there appeared to be a trapdoor leading downwards at one end of the room. Therefore he was probably on the upper level of some kind of storehouse. He tried to recall if there were any places that stored flour in London, presuming that was where he still was.

"You look so far ahead that you fail to see what's right in front of you."

Clive attention snapped from the rest of the room to the figure that was crouched over a box on the right hand side of him, retrieving bandages.

His initial reaction was that there was no way this could have been the same person as the one who had broke him out of prison. Because that person, even when they could not be seen, demanded for all attention to be upon them. Whereas this person had gone completely unnoticed, despite being in plain sight.

A person who had mastered the ability to do both was a dangerous individual indeed.

There were no doubts about who this man was; now that Clive had got a better look at him. Actually, that was a lie. Clive could have seen this man walking down the street dressed in anything else and have no idea who he was, but that outfit… the outfit was telling.

Only one man was known for wearing that particular hat and a white mask that covered only his eyes. While he had apparently discarded the cape and feather boa somewhere before coming to the room, there was still no denying Jean Descole.

At least, in theory. Seeing as he did not know who Descole was away from the outfit, Clive had never been able to let go of the notion that there could possibly have been more than one man pretending to be Descole. But for the moment, all he was concerned about was that one man who was currently acting as Descole was here with him.

"I suppose that you probably have a lot of questions you want to ask," Descole continued, cutting off what he deemed to be a suitable length of bandage, "If these questions are not too inane and I feel they are suitable, I may even answer a few."

Though Clive wanted to snap that there wasn't anything he needed to know from him, but they both knew that was a lie and would only prolong this discussion.

"The only thing that I even can ask at this point is why?" Clive said.

"That's rather vague," Descole commented, "I'd hoped for something a little more specific, such as 'why did you break me out of prison?' or 'why is someone as pathetic as me of any use to you, Descole?'"

Clive wasn't in the mood for this.

"Pick one."

"How very inhospitable. But if you insist. I suppose that the most obvious answer to the question of why I have brought you here is because I unfortunately need you," Descole began, "Which brings us to the second question of why I even would need someone as pathetic as you. Amongst those who have opposed Layton, you are one of the few who fared badly enough to find yourself arrested. Even Don Paolo has managed to evade the police. And I need not speak of myself or how I have famously been the one man who Layton couldn't bring down." At this point, Descole felt that he was losing Clive to the woozy pain that the young man was undoubtedly feeling. So he pulled Clive's broken leg out straight, making him wince in agony, before pulling up his trouser leg enough to be able to wrap the bandage tightly around the exposed injury. He then went on, "As much as it pains me to admit it, you are not entirely useless. I felt a deep loathing for you when I saw your assault on London and it became deeper still after learning of your story. To have achieved so much, to have built such a machine and a whole city replica, you must have been working since you were a child. Granted the immense funding you had and the loyalty of those who worked for your adopted family's name helped, but I can't deny the skill you must possess."

"And why should that bother someone of your own skill in the field of robotics?" asked Clive. If Descole was going to ask him for help, he at least wanted him to admit that his skills were beneath Clive's. It would be grimly satisfying to hear that put into words.

Descole knew this was what Clive wanted; "Don't get too egotistical. I could very easily drop you off back there."

"But you won't," Clive replied, "You must really need me to have gone to the lengths that you have done and I doubt you'd throw me back at the first hurdle of my disagreeing with you. You must have planned that I would."

"I didn't think that you'd be jumping for joy at the prospect of helping me, no," agreed Descole.

"Then why bother? Nothing you say will change my mind. If you want me onboard with some elaborate scheme to hurt Layton, then you're very definitely barking up the wrong tree," Clive warned.

What he wasn't aware of, was that his refusal to do anything to hurt Layton was exactly what Descole wanted to hear from him.

"Well then, you'll just have to stay here until you reconsider my offer," replied Descole, feeling that this was almost too easy.

"You'll have all of London out looking for me. Do you really think that you can keep me hidden for that long?" Clive argued.

Another twang of pain, as Descole tied the bandage in a knot, having finished with the injury.

"I've kept myself hidden for four years," he reminded.

"But that's just a case of taking off your outfit and going home," Clive protested.

"Do you really think it's that simple to evade a mind as smart as Layton? You who tread on egg shells pretending to be Luke from the future and inevitably got caught out by him," Descole snorted.

"No, I can't deny that Layton's smarter than you," he agreed.

There was a moment in which he was sure that Descole was going to strike him. While he could not see the man's eyes, his snarl was enough to demonstrate that. But, as quickly as it had come, this moment past and Descole smiled with forced sweetness, before turning back to rummage through the chest that he'd got the bandages out of.

"Well, let's see clever Layton help you out of this one," he replied, "I almost feel sorry for you, for having to depend on him. But, because I'm a nice guy, why don't I give you one chance to save yourself?"

Before Clive could protest that he didn't need any help from him, Descole thrust a pen and a piece of paper towards him.

"What?"

"I'll give you one chance to call for help," Descole clarified, "You are to write one letter, which I will post on your behalf. My only terms are that you cannot write to Layton directly."

"That's insane! Why would you let me do that?" Clive gasped.

"I told you, because I'm a nice guy. Now go ahead and write your letter, I promise not to peek," sneered Descole, getting up and walking away, to give Clive some space.

He was not stupid enough to leave Clive alone in the room, however. Going only so far as to stand by the furthest boarded up window. And Clive doubted that he was stupid enough to let him write a letter begging for his freedom, either. For a long while, Clive just stared at the blank paper, considering not writing anything. But if he didn't, all that would mean was that he remained trapped here, with no hope of escaping. At least if he did this, there was a small chance that Layton might be able to find him.

Because, while he could not write to Layton himself, nothing was stopping him from writing to the next best person.

Picking up the pen, Clive scrawled Luke's name at the top of the page.

There was no way that Luke wouldn't pass the letter onto Layton.

So he wrote about how he'd been kidnapped from prison by Descole, who seemed to be trying to enlist his help on some revenge scheme against Layton that he wanted no part of. He said that he didn't know where he was, but from what he could gather it appeared to be some kind of storehouse for flour. Because it was unavoidable, he also wrote that Descole had allowed him to write this letter and urged Luke to pass it onto the Professor.

When he had finished, he folded the piece of paper, putting it and the pen down, before staring across at Descole.

"Done so soon?" Descole asked, walking over to pick up the abandoned items, "There's no point in folding it, as I will of course read this letter through before I send it off." There was a pause, as he opened the letter and skimmed through it; "Ah, Luke Triton. What a good choice."

"I suppose that doesn't break your rule?" snarled Clive.

"Not at all," Descole said, "Though I should warn you that it may take a while for this letter to even reach the boy. He moved to America soon after you were arrested."

Clive looked shocked. He hadn't been aware of that…

"He'll still come," he growled.

"Undoubtedly, yes," agreed Descole, "And I'm sure that in the meantime you'll have ample opportunity to come to your senses in regards to your refusal to help me."

"You'll be waiting a long time!" Clive insisted.

"Perhaps. Though not at the moment. For I'm sure you'll want me to post your letter swiftly, so that it can arrive sooner. I won't be long, so don't lament your lack of company. But also know that you do not have free reign of this little room I've prepared for you," said Descole.

He placed the letter in his jacket pocket, before reaching over to grab Clive's arms. There was a struggle, Clive not making it easy for him. But with his broken leg, there wasn't much he could do, and within a few minutes Descole hand managed to tie his arms behind his back, attaching the rope he'd retrieved from the trunk to a fixture on the wall.

"…Damn!" Clive snapped, still struggling.

"Do try to behave yourself while I'm gone," Descole mocked, turning to walk away, leaving via the trapdoor at the end of the room.

Though he cursed himself for being so vulnerable, Clive was secretly quite glad that Descole had gone to post the letter. Assuming that was what he was going to do and the whole thing hadn't been a twisted attempt to give him false hope.

He figured that he should be making some sort of effort to get out of his situation, but for the moment, the pain in his out-stretched leg was almost unbearable and it made it difficult to focus. Seeing that he couldn't go anywhere, Clive made do with sitting back to reflect on his situation. Although he didn't sleep, by the time the trapdoor swung open again he realised that he'd been drifting.

It was night now. That much was at least possible to tell from the lack of light seeping between the cracks of the boarded up windows.

If Descole had removed his disguise to post the letter, then he had put it back on sometime before ascending through to the room. Still sans cape, however.

"You look strange without the boa," Clive commented, his voice coming out a little hoarse, from where he'd been drifting off.

"The floor here is dusty, I wouldn't want to ruin the cape," Descole dismissed, "And I see that you haven't managed to escape in my absence. I'd halfway hoped that you'd be competent enough to do so, but it is easier that you're still here."

"If I had, you would have just followed the trail of blood," replied Clive.

"My bandaging is better than that," said Descole, kneeling down to check the leg all the same, "…Yes, you should be fine. So stop whining. I'd expect at least a thank you for posting your letter, as well."

Assuming you did post it, thought Clive. It wasn't worth saying this out loud, though.

"I don't understand why you'd take such a risk," he said instead, "You weren't wearing gloves, so your prints will be all over the envelope."

Descole shook his head; "It's not a crime, nor even suspicious, for someone to post a letter to the Triton family."

"But when they realise who that letter's from they'll track you," growled Clive.

The smile Descole gave him in response to that was more than a little unnerving.

"I suppose we shall see."

That was all Clive got out of him on that subject. Any further questions were completely ignored, Descole busying himself with some notes from inside that trunk of his. The sound of Clive's complaints did little to disrupt his reading and eventually Clive gave up trying, in light of how pointless it was to do so.

The night was spent in distasteful silence from both of them.

When morning had arrived, Clive wasn't sure how long he had slept. Long enough, apparently, for Descole to have fetched a newspaper, which lay on the floor in front of where Clive was tied up.

"You've made the front page again," Descole commented, from where he was sat, "That should make you happy. They believe that you set this up yourself."

"Why wouldn't they…?" mumbled Clive, sighing.

Of course it would look that way. He was the mad man who had destroyed half of London. Bill Hawks would probably be shaking in his boots at the thought of him on the loose. Thankfully for Bill, Clive was in no position to do anything to anyone.

"I have a rather busy schedule today, so I can't give you the honour of my company. You had more of that than you deserved of that yesterday, anyway. So, if it's all the same with you, I'll give you your breakfast before being on my way," said Descole.

"I don't want any," muttered Clive.

This was not a lie. 'I'm not hungry' would have been a lie, but saying that he didn't want food provided for him by this lunatic was the honest truth.

"If that is the case, I won't fight with you over the matter. Your welfare concerns me too little for that. So I'll ask you one more time if you want to eat and if you say no, then I shall leave," Descole warned.

"No," Clive answered, "I want nothing from you but for you to put me back where you found me."

"Such a stubborn mule," said Descole, "But you can't say that I didn't give you a chance."

He got to his feet, turning and leaving the room without a backwards glance.

That was the last Clive saw of him that day, not that he wasn't glad to lose him. Descole's absence gave Clive time to think about his current situation and what he could do about it, now his mind felt clearer than it had done yesterday. It even gave him the opportunity to test the ropes that tied his hands, though a few hours of fruitless tugging had resulted in nothing more than rope burns on his wrists. He felt better for trying, all the same.

Due to the silence of the room, every little sound from below was magnified, as well. And though he assumed there would be no one down there except for Descole, Clive couldn't deny that it sounded as if something was happening over the course of the day. He heard the faint tinkering of metal from time to time. A sound that had been very familiar to him back when he'd worked on his mobile fortress.

Presumably, whatever Descole was doing down there was the project that he'd wanted Clive's help on.

Not that he could be much help to anyone in this state.

All he could really do was think about what would become of that letter, while listening to the faint, but oddly soothing, mechanical noises from below.

This was a pattern that Clive would soon become adjusted to, as days went by to much of the same tune – Descole would leave in the morning to work on his machine, Clive would be on his own for the whole day, then Descole would return in the evening to both rest and make sure Clive didn't escape.

Inevitably, Clive had given in to his hunger after the second day, much to Descole's mocking delight. The meal, consisting of bread, cheese and water, was probably the most dire that Clive had ever had since taking on the Dove name, but all the same it felt like the best thing he'd ever tasted in his life.

It surprised him to discover this, but Descole was initially quite attentive as host. He'd feed him in the morning, then in the evening he'd give him a second drink, before changing the bandages on his leg. The leg wasn't getting any better without suitable medical assistance, but at least that much kept it clean.

The only thing he wouldn't do was untie Clive's hands. Even when it came to the meals, he fed him by hand. Perhaps he thought that it wasn't worth the struggle of tying him up again, should Clive resist. But after having them kept in the same position for days on end, Clive's body ached, begging for his arms to be moved.

There was no way that Clive was going to beg to Descole for this, however.

As time went on, Descole drifted into being increasingly less attentive towards him. The bandages weren't changed at all after the third week and eventually Clive had even had to prompt him if he wanted water. Sometimes Descole would comply, other times he'd just snap a refusal and storm off.

"I can't help you if I'm dead!" Clive called after him, on one such occasion.

Descole froze in his tracks, muttering, "Who says I want your help?"

"You did," Clive reminded him, "You… brought me here because you wanted me to help you build whatever it is you're planning to throw at Layton."

"I never said that," assured Descole.

"But then why else would you bring me here?" demanded Clive.

"If you haven't figured that out on your own, then you're not worth the resources I waste on you," Descole snapped, "My plan remains the same, regardless of whether you're dead or alive. The longer this game goes on, the more I sway in favour of the dead option."

"So you just wanted a hostage…?" mumbled Clive, the weight of this realisation and his stupidity for not picking up on it sooner hitting him, "You just wanted someone to bring Layton here. That letter…"

"Yes, the letter that you used to invite him yourself," said Descole, smiling now, "How thoughtful of you to write to Luke, too, so in all likelihood the boy will come as well. I'll have both of them as my victims, all thanks to you."

"Layton hasn't come!" snapped Clive.

That was enough to knock the smile off Descole's lips.

"No, he has not. And don't think that this matter doesn't pain me, after all the effort I've gone to. Either Layton doesn't care enough about you to help, which is rather disappointing for you, or else he's not smart enough to figure out the obvious clues left for him, which is disappointing for me. He is my greatest adversary and I had more faith in his intellect then that," he replied, "The man has never failed to follow my trails of breadcrumbs in the past."

"Then I hope that he doesn't care enough to come," spat Clive.

"You don't hope that at all," Descole corrected, "The one thing that we have in common is that we both want Layton to come here."

"We have something else in common, too," Clive pointed out, "That we both know Layton's going to beat you."

"Don't you dare!" roared Descole, storming back over to him, "I have had years to plan my revenge on him and analyse every little mistake that I've made in the past! Layton will not defeat me this time!"

"If he even bothers," added Clive, not sure why he was enjoying this so much.

"He'll bother. If I have to hang your corpse out from the roof, he will come here!" Descole yelled.

"Then why don't you just bring him here yourself, if you're that desperate?" demanded Clive.

"For the same reason that you told him he was in the future during your little game – because he has to work it out for himself. If he cannot do this, then he is not Hershel Layton," said Descole.

That, at least, Clive could understand. It was madness, but madness that Clive had himself suffered from. Layton needed to catch you out of his own merits. That's why tricking him for even a short time was more satisfying than making all of Scotland Yard run in circles for hours.

If Layton hadn't responded to his 'letter from the future', Clive supposed that he'd be disappointed as well.

However, the letter he'd sent three weeks ago was one he would be glad for the Professor to ignore.

"Write one again," Descole said, as if he was thinking the same thing, "Write him another letter."

"No!"

"Of course you won't. Fine then, I'll write him one on your behalf."

"You won't," protested Clive, "For all the reasons that you just said. If you write him a letter yourself, that would mean he was unable to work out the first one you sent. Therefore he won't be good enough for you to destroy."

Maybe it was weak, but that logic seemed to work on Descole for the moment.

"Yes, you're right. I will… wait a while longer before calling this whole ordeal a waste," said Descole.

"And then?" Clive pressed.

"What happens after that is not something that I need to discuss with my hostage," Descole replied.

"Very well."

In all honesty, Clive hadn't expected more than that. He was just glad that he'd managed to sway Descole from bringing Layton here for the moment.

There conversation had not granted Clive the water he'd initially wanted, but in light of the results he didn't care. What he did care about was how foolish he had been to not realise what Descole was using him for earlier. But, that was in the past. At best, he could hope that the letter had either been ignored or lost in the post.

What would happen next, he didn't know. Possibly, Descole would leave him for dead. That theory gathered more weight as Descole left for that night and did not return in the morning to feed him. He didn't need Clive alive, as long as just the hope that he was alive was out there.

But what would happen after that?

Would Descole just use whatever he was building downstairs to crush Layton, regardless?

It was something that he didn't want to think about, although there were few other things that he could use to distract his thoughts with, in light of that.

Apparently, these notions had proven to be a distraction to Descole as well, since by the time the afternoon drew to a close, he lurched back up the ladders, slumping down to sit next to Clive.

"What would you have done if he hadn't come?" Descole asked, sounding different to how he had done before, like a child who had been too poor for Santa Claus to notice him.

"I'd have gone through with it anyway," Clive answered, even though it was exactly what he didn't want Descole to do. It was the truth, all the same; "The difference is that deep down I wanted him to save me from my madness."

There was no reply for a long time.

"Layton needs to suffer," Descole said, eventually.

"For putting a stop to what you did in the first place? Why were you even doing any of those things to start with? It can't always have been to defeat him," Clive debated, "He wasn't even famous in the beginning."

You made him famous, Clive reflected.

"Layton needs to come here," droned Descole.

"No, he doesn't. And perhaps he doesn't care enough about either of us to-"

"Stop talking! Layton will come!"

"Yelling at me about it won't- …What's that noise?"

Clive turned his head, listening harder to the sounds that were coming from outside of the building.

"He's here! I told you that he'd come!" cried Descole, getting to his feet and running for the ladder, "Wait until you see the look on his face when he sees what I have in store for him!" This was followed by a strangled gasp of horror. Descole staring wide-eyed down the trapdoor; "You're not Layton…"

"No, I most certainly am not. But I'm going to put a stop to you all the same," came a voice that was definitely female.

Descole backed away from the hole, quickly enough to avoid an upwards kick from the woman who sprang out of it like a whirlwind. Though Clive had never met her in person, he easily recognised Emmy Altava, former assistant to Professor Layton.

"Why are you here? It should be Layton!" Descole barked, backing up.

"Oh, he's here as well," assured Emmy, "But he's rather too preoccupied with disarming that robot to come here himself. This would be the second time he's found one of your machines before the grand unveiling, would it not? Thank goodness your hostage kept you talking for long enough for him to get through the riddles you'd left on it."

At that, Descole rounded on Clive, grabbing him by his shoulders.

"You set this up! Somehow you got in contact with Layton and arranged all this!" he shouted. Clive didn't need to see his eyes to see the madness that was within them.

"Please, that's a pretty pathetic straw to clutch at, even for you," snorted Emmy, walking up behind him, "The Professor figured out that letter all by himself, as soon as Luke got back to England. He knew that there was no way you'd still be in London, as there would be too much risk of getting caught. But since you didn't have much time, you can't have got too far away. Thank goodness for these storerooms, eh? It did seem like a rather suspicious for someone so disconnected from the industry to buy them like that. Thank goodness Inspector Chelmey is paranoid enough to keep hold of sales records."

"Scotland Yard shouldn't even have records like that," growled Descole, shaking slightly.

"Are you going to beg that case at your trial?" asked Emmy.

"I… there's still time…"

"There would be, if you had any help. Luckily for us, you were so worried about creating a witness that you don't seem to have any accomplices to fight the Professor, while you waste time up here," Emmy hummed.

"I'm never defeated that easily! Not after… not after planning for so long!" Descole cried.

"Did you plan for me?" questioned Emmy, "Or, in your single-mindedness, did you just plan for Layton?"

"Emmy, what's going on? Have you found them?"

Without turning away from Descole, Emmy called back, "No need to worry, he's right here. And so is his hostage."

"Ah, that's good to hear," said Layton.

Clive watched as the famed Professor pulled his way up through into the room, with Luke close behind him. He'd never been so happy to see someone in his life.

He wasn't the only one.

"Layton…" Descole murmured.

"My goodness! Clive, are you all right?" asked Layton, looking horrified.

Though he hadn't thought about it before now, Clive imagined that he probably did look quite a state.

"I'm… fine," Clive replied.

Now that you're here, I'm fine. Everything will be all right now that you're here.

He wasn't the only person thinking that.

"I suppose you have a few more tricks up your sleeves, Descole!" spat Luke, staring out angrily from behind Layton.

Descole smiled.

"I told you he'd come…"

"What are you talking about?" demanded Emmy.

"…And he did."

With that, he threw his arms into the air.

"Is he… surrendering, Professor?" asked Luke, baffled.

"It does look that way," replied Layton.

"Very well, I'll apprehend him then," Emmy stated, stepping towards Descole.

"No!" Clive yelled, surprising himself at his own volume, "No. It needs to be Layton who takes him away."

Emmy raised an eyebrow; "But the Professor isn't as… Well, I'm better at restraining criminals than he is."

"He won't run from Layton," Clive assured her.

He knew this was true. Layton had come for him, after all.

Emmy looked over at Layton, shrugging indifferently. Though he probably didn't understand it, the Professor stepped towards Descole, who lowered his arms again, ready to be escorted outside.

"There's police surrounding the building, if he tries anything," Emmy warned.

"Duly noted," said Layton, "Now, if you'll be as kind as to untie Clive, while I'm gone."

"Of course," answered Emmy.

Having been there for so long, Clive had come to terms with the fact that he was a selfish person. He had wanted Layton to come here. And he wanted Layton to be the one to save him. Just like Descole, he hadn't banked on anyone else but Layton turning up, however.

Unlike Descole, though, Clive was reasonable enough to know when someone needed something more than he did.

Anyone could untie him, but only Layton could be the one to hand Descole over to the police.

Anything else would have been wrong.

So he sat there quietly, as Emmy cut through the ropes that had held him in place for so long. His arms screamed in pain, feeling as if they might snap off. But instead, they just dropped limply to his sides.

"I'm sure… they'll be all right," reasoned Emmy, in a voice that held no certainty, "Can you walk?"

Clive shook his head; "Sorry, no."

"That's fine," she said, lifting him up as gently as she could. With one broken leg and both arms out of commission, he wouldn't have been much good for getting down the stairs, but Miss Altava possessed a surprising amount of strength, carrying him down the trapdoor with little effort.

Once on the ground, Clive could see where he was for the first time. He'd been right to guess that this place had once been used for storage. But most notable, was the mechanical contraption that Descole had been working on, fashioned from the remains of the metal storage units that had once held grain. It would have been an impressive-looking machine, if not for the fact that it had been more than partially dismantled. Right now, it just looked like a sad and dejected monster, retired before it had even seen the battlefield.

"It would have been awful if he'd set that thing on the Professor," Luke said, staring at it in awe.

"Indeed it would. Though our Professor has handled much worse than that," assured Emmy, "And here he comes now."

"Luke, Emmy, I'm glad to say that Descole has now been detained," Layton said, walking over to them, "Though we should go with them to the prison, just in case. I don't think I'll feel like we've won until he's behind bars. And, well, as awkward as it is to say, we'll need to take Clive back as well. But not before he's seen a doctor."

"I'm fine," Clive protested.

"Your arms are practically hanging off. You are not fine," insisted Layton, "Now come on, all three of you. There's a lot that needs to be sorted out."

Luke and Emmy nodded cheerfully, following Layton as always.

And though Clive didn't say anything, he knew that Layton was wrong. He was fine. He knew that he was fine for the same reason that Luke, Emmy and especially Descole knew that they were fine, too – because Layton was here.

It was a horrible amount of unhealthy fixation to thrust upon a man who had no idea of it, but as long as Layton came to help them, they would always feel that they were fine.

Because, in the end, Layton would always come to help.

And that was why everyone who knew him depended on him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:** I'll be the first to say that Descole's fate at the end of part one was rushed. This was simply because I'd lost interest in writing the story by that point and wanted it out of the way. Which is an awful thing to do. It kept bugging me, so I've written up a second part of this story, retelling the first chapter from Descole's perspective to try to make up for that. I can't promise this chapter will successfully justify his actions, but after this I'm washing my hands of this particular story. Admittedly, this isn't really so much a second chapter as it is extra reading, so don't feel that you're obliged to read this if you read part one. Also, this fic contains spoilers for games one-to-five and continues to ignore PL6.

* * *

You cannot have a successful celebrity without an agent.

An agent is the one who builds them up, arranges where they'll be and what they'll be doing. They take care of things that the celebrities themselves are either too preoccupied or too stupid to take care of for themselves.

Jean Descole saw himself as the agent to the esteemed Professor Layton.

'Esteemed'?

That was a laugh.

The man had been nothing more than a university lecturer before he'd been called to Misthallery to solve the mystery of the spectre. Once there, he proceeded to unravel Descole's plot and, a year after this had happened, these events were revealed to the press, causing Layton to make a name for himself.

Seeing potential in the Professor, Descole had naturally organised for him to be invited to an opera, which was in fact the disguise for a competition to gain eternal life. On that day, Layton found out the true answer to the mystery of Ambrosia, which did not end in eternal life. People heard about this, the news spread, and Hershel Layton became ever more famous.

By the time Angela had summoned Layton to Monte d'Or to solve a mystery Descole had tricked that fool Randall into creating, people really knew who this man was. He was verging on becoming a celebrity. And it was all down to Descole orchestrating where he would go and what mysteries he would solve.

So naturally, when the ultimate set-up was unveiled, and Descole publicly defeated Layton for the final time, this would leave him as the one that people would remember. He would be the man who defeated the famed Professor Layton.

And so, just as planned, he did.

Well, perhaps 'just as planned' was stretching the truth a little. The plan hadn't gone exactly how Descole had wanted, which was something to be expected when Layton was to be involved, and he hadn't actually managed to kill the man (sometimes he debated with himself if he'd even wanted to), but in their be-all-end-all final battle, Layton had lost. Descole had evaded capture and left Layton with the wounded pride of knowing that he'd never unveiled the mystery of whom Descole was or why he'd done what he did.

This should have spread like wildfire across the newspapers.

Should have.

It wasn't as if the whole event had gone entirely undocumented so much as it became like a dark spot on Layton's otherwise perfect career that people preferred not to talk about.

But surely, that wasn't a complete failure. Whether they talked about it or not, people would remember the defeat and over time their admiration of Layton would dwindle to nothing.

In a perfect world, that would have been the case.

However, in this world Layton went on to solve more mysteries and become ever more the apple in the public's eyes.

The first mystery he solved, after ridding his life of Descole, was concerned with the Golden Apple of St. Mystere. This had ultimately resulted in Layton gaining a daughter. Perhaps the lull in his fame was best suited to this event, as the press never found out about where his new-found child, Flora, had come from. By the time Layton was tackling his next case, though, the world was eager to know about how the apparent murder of Dr. Schrader was connected to the newly born Molentary Express train.

It seemed as if the love that the country had for Layton would only increase, even without Descole. Effectively, Layton had fired his agent and was now better off with the bunch of hacks who dared to think they were good enough to oppose him.

Descole had observed the whole thing with contempt. Anton, Don Paolo and whoever else were not true enemies like he had been. They weren't even trying. Most of the 'villains' Layton went up against were misguided and circumstantial.

Perhaps the biggest insult of all was that Layton seemed to have completely blanked Descole from his memory.

All the times that Descole followed him in secret, he wanted to hear Layton say his name even once. He wanted to hear, 'This doesn't have a patch on the mystery Descole created' or 'I wish that I could have uncovered the truth about Descole quite this easily'. But no, he was not granted these luxuries. For all Layton went about, Descole may well have never existed.

He stayed in hiding, knowing that one day his time would come. That he had been the true winner three years ago and he should never forget that.

It was during a stretch he'd spent away from London that the news of Layton's latest adventure had reached him. It was an event that he couldn't have avoided even if he'd wanted to, on account of the media falling into mass hysteria in regards to it.

Half of London had been destroyed by a mobile fortress, created by a crazed youth who had kidnapped the Prime Minister. Layton had saved the day, of course, and that was about as much as the newspapers cared for the matter. It had been about as much as Descole had cared too, before he learned the details.

The more that he found out about this Clive Dove, his ties to Layton and the underground city he'd created, the angrier he'd become. All the time that Descole had been arranging perfect plays for Layton to take part in, Clive had been building an underground copy of London, just for the thrill of fooling Layton once.

Layton would have been nothing without Descole, but Clive hadn't wanted Layton's attention because of his fame. No, apparently Layton had saved him as a child and that was the reason that Clive wanted Layton specifically to be involved in his sickening scheme.

And people talked about it.

Bring the Prime Minister into your affairs and everyone wants to know. Not that Bill Hawks was truly the reason people latched onto this story in a way that they hadn't done Descole's tale. As he knew that the true reason people cared about this event was because Layton had won. It fed into their logic that he was this perfect saviour who could protect them from everything that threaten fair England. As if he really was!

No one wanted to remember Descole, because he had been the one person to damage that logic. But everyone wanted to remember yet another example of Layton saving the day.

Descole hated Clive because of this.

He hated that the boy had taken all this credit, when if Descole had never built Layton up to begin with that nobody would even care. Even more so, he hated that Clive didn't care about any of this – that he had taken the trophy for Descole's hard work and didn't even realise it.

Perhaps more than for Clive, however, Descole hatred for Layton continued to escalate.

Layton hadn't defeated him, nor even come looking for him.

He was a potential threat to England and Layton did nothing to find him!

After days of dwelling upon this matter, he reached the only conclusion that seemed to make sense to him:

Descole needed to be defeated by Layton.

It would have to be a grand affair, because nothing else would be good enough. He needed to be defeated at the height of his fame, like Clive had been, so that people would care.

So that Layton would care.

Because, at the end of the day, that was what mattered. Descole wasn't so much concerned about the public as he was Layton. The public had just been a tool to make Layton worthy of him. A tool that had worked a little too well.

If he could only have Layton figure out one final mystery and acknowledge that he was worth being his adversary in a way that no one else could be, Descole would be content.

He knew that he mustn't rush this, so Descole spent time adopting another persona in order to create his final plan. Months ahead of schedule, he purchased a storehouse outside of London, so that he could make another robotic masterpiece.

Although, in truth, he knew this particular robot would never get off the ground. It was a cruel fate that he detested bestowing upon one of his creations, but ultimately this one was just to set the scene. And that scene was one of a man, crazed for vengeance, building a contraption to defeat Layton. A scene that was tailor-made for someone who wouldn't even appreciate it – Clive Dove.

Perhaps out to spite, Descole had factored him into this plan. He wanted Clive to see that Descole was the only worthy agent to Layton and that in comparison Clive could not ever come close to him.

So, a short while after he'd begun creating the robot, Descole adopted yet another persona and made his way back to London.

Personas were like oxygen to him. He had so many of them, abandoning old ones frequently to reduce the risk of being exposed. If anyone ever asked who he truly was, underneath all the disguises, he would have laughed and told them that he was Jean Descole.

His latest disguise was a woman called Sandra, who worked day shifts at a prison. She couldn't work nights, because she had kids to pick up from school. People sympathised with a working mother and they suspected Descole less when he disguised himself as a woman. For that reason, the gender of his disguises would vary from one situation to the next. In this situation, it just so happened that a female persona worked easier.

Keeping his nose close to the ground, Descole soon managed to create a reliable reputation for Sandra. Even if she had limitations to when she could work, she was good at what she did. Because of that, when an opening came along for the specific branch of solitary that he'd been aiming for, the wardens had Sandra first in mind.

Apparently, the rotation of officers who guarded Clive was frequently changed, lest he catch onto any patterns that could potentially help him escape. Descole loathed that they gave him that much credit.

So he had to dig his feet in to stay where he was. At least long enough to learn about the loopholes in the system that would aid him in organising the kidnapping he had planned.

It didn't take long to learn about the two bumbling oafs who were usually assigned to work with Sandra – a stubborn old man called Sean, who was clearly too ill to do this job properly, and a dull youth called Andrew, who needed this job to pay his bills, but would rather do anything else but be here. Between Andrew's unwillingness and Sean's incapability, it was child's play to spot the gaps in time that would make putting his plan into action easier.

Not that he really needed time to get past these two idiots. It had been simple. As winter crept in, Sandra had mentioned to Sean that her kids were going to stay with their father over the holidays and, if he wanted a break, she'd gladly take over on the night shifts doing this time. He's agreed, of course. And, because he hated Andrew so much, Sean naturally didn't mention his absence to him. That way the boy could remain in fear of Sean and work harder up until the last minute. In theory. In practice, nothing could make Andrew motivated to work at all.

This was something that Descole had been counting on when, on the night his plan came into action, it was Sandra that Andrew found waiting to greet him in the office instead of an angry Sean.

"What are you doing here?" Andrew had asked, his face lighting up in an all too obvious way. Since Sandra had started here, he'd found her attractive and had hoped he could convince her to forget about that divorced husband of hers. Pity his hopes were about to come crashing down around his ears.

"Didn't Sean tell you? I'm taking over," Sandra purred, grinning.

"Old guy never tells me anything," mumbled Andrew, "But never mind him. What I want to know is if there's any reason you've turned up here so early."

"Isn't it obvious? I came to see you," cooed Sandra. It was amusing to see the look of gleeful surprise on his face, as if all his Christmases had come at once.

Andrew cleared his throat; "I knew that you'd come around eventually."

"Oh yes, there's no escaping your charms. Which is I've brought you a very special present," Sandra replied.

Before Andrew had too much time to dwell on this surprise, the smoke bomb was unleashed. Knowing that he had to act quickly, Descole covered his mouth, tackling Andrew to the floor before he could reach the alarm on the wall.

Not that he felt Andrew was competent enough to ring for help, as he was too busy coughing loudly. If he'd been smart, he'd have tried to reduce his oxygen in-take. But instead, he took huge gasps of breath, inhaling more of the smoke into his system with each one. It didn't take long before he was rendered unconscious by the gas, collapsing to the floor.

Descole then got up, working quickly to cut the power via the fuse box. As he did this, he pulled off the Sandra disguise, leaving it on top of the sleeping Andrew. It was what he would have wanted.

This fake skin was just another clue for Layton, to let him know that the person he was dealing with was someone that he should never have forgotten.

Besides that, he didn't want to greet Clive as Sandra. Clive had seen Sandra many times, even if he'd never spoken a word to her. This time, he wanted Clive to see him for the danger that he really was.

After heading down the corridor, he announced his presence; "Impressive, if I do say so myself."

Because Clive should have been impressed with the lengths he'd gone to, if he had any sort of respect for the craft.

But no.

"Why are you trying to break me out?"

It was a tad irritable that the young man had summed up what his aims were instantly. He reasoned to himself that it was perhaps just a lucky guess and that Clive was the sort of person who jumped to conclusions, but that didn't stop him from being annoyed by it.

"I may be here just to gloat," he deflected.

However, Clive was ahead of him on that one, replying, "This is a lot of effort to go to just to gloat at someone. And if that's the case, you don't have much time to do it before the next guard arrives."

If only he had any idea that the next guard wasn't going to arrive anytime soon, on account of the fact that she was already here.

"So very impatient, I see. It's a wonder you're the same person who worked for years to craft an underground city just to fool Layton. But I suppose that, if the situation were reversed, I'd be eager to get out as well," said Descole. He'd give him that much, at least. Although, if the situation had been the other way around, Descole would have been able to get out of here without needing any kind of assistance.

Clive then played the card that Descole was hoping he'd play.

"That's where you're wrong, I'm not eager. I don't want to get out of here," he insisted.

This was perfect. Descole wasn't sure what he would have done if Clive had instead agreed to come with him. If anything, he would have frowned upon him even more, since that would have meant that he wanted to escape but couldn't. Someone like that was not worthy of Descole's time.

He hadn't finished playing just yet, however, deciding to take a stab at something that he'd seen reflected in Clive's eyes every time he'd worked a shift as Sandra.

"Really? Are you honestly such a simpleton as to believe that you can ever make up for what you did? You can stay here for the rest of your life, but society will never forgive you," Descole taunted. They both knew it was true.

"If that is all I can do, then that is what I will do," replied Clive. He was stubborn.

Descole wanted to wait until later before he dealt with stubborn, however.

"How very noble. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to listen to you come to terms with yourself," he said. While this may have been a lie, he wanted to get this show on the road. Crouching down to attach one of his explosives, a beautifully handcrafted piece of equipment, to the lock of the door, he warned, "I'd step back, if I were you."

He himself was already half way down the corridor by the time he'd finished speaking those words. Fortunately for him, he had more space to escape the small blast than Clive did. Though he knew that it wasn't going to kill him. He wanted Clive to be alive long enough to witness Descole's superiority over him.

After waiting a moment for the dust to settle, Descole made his way back to the cell. Now, he had a time limit. People would not ignore an explosion.

There had possibly been a bit more damage than he'd intended. The blood gushing from Clive's right leg was only worsened from the way his body had crumpled down on it. There was no way it wasn't broken.

He could deal with this later; however, as right now he needed to get them both out of there.

Clive's eyes glanced blearily up at him. He wasn't sure whether or not he'd realised who he was and didn't have any time to ask, even if he'd wanted to, as soon after that Clive slipped into unconsciousness.

That made Descole's job a lot easier.

Hoisting Clive up onto his shoulder, he made his way out of the building, via the routes that would attract the least attention possible. How fortunate for him that they'd let Sandra so willingly into their fold, showing her all the places where you could have a quick smoke without being caught and giving her the combination for every lock on every door that she'd ever need.

Maybe in future they'd take a little more care about who they employed. But that was hardly Descole's problem.

As he made his way safely onto the streets of London, he amused himself with the thought that Sandra was signing off her first and last night shift.

Of course, he had no intention of staying in London for long. There'd be little time before the news of Clive's escape hit the press and the surrounding area would be the least safe place to be. So he made his way back to the storehouse, which was far enough into the country to avoid suspicion, but close enough to not take too long to get to and risk being seen on the road for any length of time.

It took him all through the night to drive there and he was thankful that Clive slept through the trip.

By the time his guest awoke, Descole had already got him safely into the storehouse's attic and was preparing some bandages for the leg. Just another little hassle that he could have done without.

He watched Clive look around the room, trying desperately to work out where he was. It was hard not to grit his teeth at the fact that he'd completely ignored Descole in his desire to see if there was any way to be saved. Just like the public had done.

"You look so far ahead that you fail to see what's right in front of you," he muttered.

That jolted Clive's attention onto him. He took some satisfaction in the look of shock at the realisation of who had kidnapped him. He knew that Clive knew who he was. Almost every story about Layton that had hit the London Times had been written by Clive, who was then acting as a reporter in an attempt to disguise everything else he was doing. He'd written stories about the champion Layton, who defeated the ghastly Descole. It was probably more than part Clive's fault that the people's opinion was to love Layton and ignore Descole.

He didn't talk. For the moment he was too busy coming up with his own theories, so it was down to Descole to break the ice again.

"I suppose that you probably have a lot of questions you want to ask," he said, keeping himself preoccupied by cutting off a length of bandage that he'd removed from the trunk, "If these questions are not too inane and I feel they are suitable, I may even answer a few."

Disappointingly, Clive replied, "The only thing that I even can ask at this point is why?"

"That's rather vague," observed Descole, "I'd hoped for something a little more specific, such as 'why did you break me out of prison?' or 'why is someone as pathetic as me of any use to you, Descole?'"

Yes, please do ask why I need you, he mused, so that I can feed you with the lies that someone as stupid as you is bound to believe.

"Pick one," growled Clive.

It was hard for Descole to keep his composure to this. He'd spent months arranging all of this and this man didn't even have the gratitude to humour him. But then, he supposed that all of this had come to pass because of the ignorance of society. Allowing society's continued faults to anger him would be wasting time.

"How very inhospitable. But if you insist," Descole said, unable to avoid taking a shot at Clive's rudeness, "I suppose that the most obvious answer to the question of why I have brought you here is because I unfortunately need you. Which brings us to the second question of why I even would need someone as pathetic as you. Amongst those who have opposed Layton, you are one of the few who fared badly enough to find yourself arrested. Even Don Paolo has managed to evade the police. And I need not speak of myself or how I have famously been the one man who Layton couldn't bring down." He noticed that Clive was hardly even listening to him. In all likelihood, the stinging from his broken leg was distracting him. But Descole had not brought him here so that Clive could wallow in his own discomfort. In order to get his attention back, he forced his leg out straight, rolling up his trouser leg so that he could apply the bandage. Taking satisfaction in the wince of agony, he continued, "As much as it pains me to admit it, you are not entirely useless. I felt a deep loathing for you when I saw your assault on London and it became deeper still after learning of your story. To have achieved so much, to have built such a machine and a whole city replica, you must have been working since you were a child. Granted the immense funding you had and the loyalty of those who worked for your adopted family's name helped, but I can't deny the skill you must possess."

He wasn't lying about the loathing part, at least.

"And why should that bother someone of your own skill in the field of robotics?" Clive demanded. The whelk was daring to imply that Descole wanted his help because he himself was inferior.

"Don't get too egotistical. I could very easily drop you off back there," he threatened.

Clive was smarter than that, answering, "But you won't. You must really need me to have gone to the lengths that you have done and I doubt you'd throw me back at the first hurdle of my disagreeing with you. You must have planned that I would."

It was lucky that his apparent intelligence was leading him down completely the wrong track, which is what Descole wanted. Can't see the forest for the trees, this one. Just like all those newspaper articles he'd written had implied.

"I didn't think that you'd be jumping for joy at the prospect of helping me, no," agreed Descole.

"Then why bother?" Clive asked, "Nothing you say will change my mind. If you want me onboard with some elaborate scheme to hurt Layton, then you're very definitely barking up the wrong tree."

"Well then, you'll just have to stay here until you reconsider my offer," replied Descole, silently giving himself credit for keeping calm about how well this was going.

"You'll have all of London out looking for me. Do you really think that you can keep me hidden for that long?" questioned Clive.

Descole was tiring of his questions by this point. So he made quick work of finishing up the bandaging, to hurry them along. Soon enough, they'd get to the part of the conversation that was most important to him.

All the same, he had his pride.

"I've kept myself hidden for four years."

"But that's just a case of taking off your outfit and going home," taunted Clive.

"Do you really think it's that simple to evade a mind as smart as Layton? You who tread on egg shells pretending to be Luke from the future and inevitably got caught out by him," mocked Descole.

In truth, it seemed as if Layton hadn't found him simply because he hadn't cared to look. It was a painful truth that stung each time Descole was made to think of it.

Clive, however, was not done with his taunting yet; "No, I can't deny that Layton's smarter than you."

This was almost the straw that broke the camel's back. Layton, smarter than him? He who had built the Professor up into what he was today only to be tossed aside when his services were no longer required? Layton was not anything without him!

Seeing Clive staring at him with wide eyes, he forced a smile. Couldn't have the boy working anything out through a flaw in the act, after all. It was hard to maintain false cheerfulness in light of his anger, though, so Descole turned back to the trunk. The sooner he could get this plan on the move, the less time he'd have to deal with this presumptuous brat.

"Well, let's see clever Layton help you out of this one. I almost feel sorry for you, for having to depend on him. But, because I'm a nice guy, why don't I give you one chance to save yourself?" he said, glad to be making progress.

He took out a pen and a piece of paper, passing them over to the confused Clive.

"What?" Clive babbled.

"I'll give you one chance to call for help. You are to write one letter, which I will post on your behalf," instructed Descole, "My only terms are that you cannot write to Layton directly."

"That's insane! Why would you let me do that?" asked Clive.

It would have been insane, if it hadn't been perfectly part of the plan.

"I told you, because I'm a nice guy. Now go ahead and write your letter, I promise not to peek," Descole teased.

He headed off, allowing Clive time to write. It was easy to predict that he'd write to someone close to the Professor. Mostly probably to Luke, seeing that the young boy was one of the few friends of Layton that Clive was also acquainted with through the incident.

After a short while he heard the pen being dropped to the floor and, sure enough, when he turned around Clive was staring at him. Making a show of walking over, Descole took hold of the now folded letter and flipped it open to have a read through. It looked a lot like he had predicted that it would do.

"Done so soon? There's no point in folding it, as I will of course read this letter through before I send it off." He commented, "Ah, Luke Triton. What a good choice."

"I suppose that doesn't break your rule?" checked Clive.

"Not at all," Descole assured him, "Though I should warn you that it may take a while for this letter to even reach the boy. He moved to America soon after you were arrested."

It was satisfying to know all the facts when Clive did not. And from the look on his face, this had been one fact that Clive had definitely not been aware of.

But Clive was persistent, barking, "He'll still come."

"Undoubtedly, yes," Descole replied, seeing as he was banking on this. He then decided to play up the act to avoid Clive getting suspicious, "And I'm sure that in the meantime you'll have ample opportunity to come to your senses in regards to your refusal to help me."

"You'll be waiting a long time!" snapped Clive.

Really, he didn't care how long he waited for Clive to change his mind. It wasn't important.

"Perhaps. Though not at the moment," Descole answered, "For I'm sure you'll want me to post your letter swiftly, so that it can arrive sooner. I won't be long, so don't lament your lack of company. But also know that you do not have free reign of this little room I've prepared for you."

He was nothing if not well prepared. Pocketing the letter and reaching into the trunk to remove a length of rope. Advancing upon the struggling Clive, he made to tie his arms behind his back. After all, there was no point in risking him slinking off and undoing Descole's careful planning. While it wasn't an easy fight, Descole feeling that he'd probably bruise where Clive had elbowed his ribs, the broken leg made it impossible for Clive to hold off having his hands tied to the post behind him for too long.

"…Damn!" cursed Clive.

"Do try to behave yourself while I'm gone," concluded Descole, turning to leave down the ladders at the end of the room.

He was very glad that conversation was over. It had been difficult. Hating Clive was far easier when he was right in front of him than it had been during all those months Descole had put into researching him. Clive was as dependent on Layton as everyone else seemed to be, even if he was to blame for the public's opinions on the man in the first place through his biased articles. If Descole had written those stories they would have gone very differently.

Not that he should dwell in the past, as there was still his beautiful final scheme playing out before him. These early stages were crucial and precious. That included the scribbled letter that Clive had written to Luke, begging for help. It was perhaps the only thing that Clive had ever made that was precious and worthwhile.

After throwing on another disguise, Descole gave his robotic machine an affectionate pat on the bonnet, before heading out into the daylight.

He was now no longer Descole, but instead Earnest Matherson, a young man who had come from up north to try his hand at running a mill. The persona he'd created for Matherson was that of a rich son of a factory owner, who had his fingers in many pies in an attempt to impress his father. So far, all he'd managed to do here was buy the old storehouse. The local villagers soon had him painted as a boaster who would sell the place again as soon as he realised the hard work that would be involved. Because they were naturally distrusting of northerners, they left him alone to get on with his business.

Not even a smile or a nod as he walked down the street. It wasn't that they suspected him of anything; they just didn't want anything to do with him.

Who would think twice about a man posting a letter?

Matherson often posted letters, after all. Probably to brag to daddy about how well he was doing. No one thought anything of yet another one being placed into the post box.

As always, this was all too easy.

Everyone was too easy to fool, except for Layton.

It was exciting to think that as he did this, most probably, Scotland Yard had already called Layton in to discuss Clive's escape. Maybe he was already looking at the discarded costume of Sandra lying on the floor, listening to Andrew babble on while he made his own deductions. He would dismiss Don Paolo instantly, as this wasn't his style, nor would he have anything to gain from breaking Clive out of prison. And while he wouldn't know just then what Descole would gain from doing so, he'd know that there was only one other person willing to go to those sorts of lengths in the field of disguise…

How long, he wondered, would it take for Layton to trace him?

Would it be after Luke has brought the letter to him or would he figure it out before that?

Those thoughts were almost unbearable. But he had to stay calm a bit longer. The villagers would grow curious if Matherson burst out in sudden glee and Clive might end up thinking down the right track if Descole did the same. It was too soon for either of those things to happen.

It was nightfall before he returned to the storehouse, simply because he didn't think that he could stand looking at Clive's face until it was absolutely necessary. Upon his return, they bickered a bit more, but Descole inevitably stopped talking to him when Clive treaded a little too closely onto the topic of the letter being tracked. He'd seen that Descole hadn't worn gloves when handling the envelope and it had made him suspicious.

The best he could do at that point was evade further questions through his silence, before Clive eventually drifted off to sleep anyway. He was surprised this hadn't happened sooner, given the pain that he was probably in. Judging from the rope burns Descole found on his wrists after he'd dozed off, he summarised that Clive had spent most of the day trying to find a way out and now exhaustion had finally hit him.

Wanting to make sure he didn't try anything, Descole also slept on the floor of the room. It was uncomfortable and he woke many times during the night, before giving up at the crack of dawn to go fetch a newspaper from the local shop.

If the store owner was surprised to see Matherson so early, he didn't comment, just handing over the copy of the London Times that the young man had purchases. They ordered this newspaper in, even so far away from the city, so that the residents could pretend they were important enough to keep up with the goings on at London.

Matherson read the newspaper on the way back to his storehouse, removing the disguise and becoming Descole again for Clive's benefit after he was back inside and had made sure that the door was securely locked. He wanted to avoid being Descole around the village as much as possible, but he didn't want Clive to see him as anyone else.

The story of Clive's escape had of course made the front page. The panic had instantly set in and, before anyone had a chance to really think about it, there were already fabricated tales about how Clive had probably broken out of there by himself. As if he could.

It made sense that the media would think this, though. Descole knew that. And by the time Clive had awoken and looked through the article himself, it became clear that he knew this was the most obvious answer as well. There was a hint of worry in his eyes, that maybe the most important person would believe it, too. Maybe he would believe that Clive had broken his promise to make up to society for what he did.

But they both knew that Layton was better than that, even if that knowledge did go unspoken.

After the topic of the newspaper was out of the way, they had a brief spat about food, which Clive refused to have. Knowing that, for the length of time he'd most likely be here, there was no way that Clive could go without food or water forever, Descole let him sulk over this fact, heading off to deal with his mechanical creation.

While the robot was never intended to be completed, Descole put as much care into its creation as he did any of the others he had made over the years. They were made by his hands and deserved to be honoured.

Working on the robot was mostly an excuse to not have to deal with Clive. At this moment in time, there was nowhere else that he needed to be. There was little more he could do than continue to track the media and wait for that letter to reach Luke. Part of him wanted to go to London, just so that he could watch Layton learn of the truth, but he couldn't risk leaving this place for prolonged periods of times. If a nosy villager was to stumble in and discover Clive then the whole plan would go to waste.

So he stayed there for the rest of the day, only going up to check on Clive in the evening. By the time the second day was through and Descole had repeated his pattern of absence, he was granted the satisfaction of Clive admitting that his hunger strike wasn't working. Going without food or water for so long hadn't done him any favours in light of his less-than-healthy current state.

Descole granted him both of these things, but decided that it wasn't worth the risk of untying him. He didn't want Clive to get away. It all needed to go perfectly and this lull in activity was no reason to take risks. So he was forced to hand feed him, as irritating as it was to have to do so. Bread and cheese was all he got, because Descole wasn't willing to go to further expenses for the sake of his luxury.

After that, he changed the bandage on Clive's leg. He told himself that he was doing this because the first bandage was now bloody and horrible to look at. Besides, it wasn't worth Clive catching an infection from it if this could be easily avoided. But really, perhaps doing this and, continuing to do it each day, was some vain attempt to reason with himself that he was still capable of consideration towards something that wasn't Layton.

He never untied the hands, though. That would be going too far. It was undoubted that Clive would have objections to this, but he didn't voice these feelings, so Descole didn't pursue them.

Over time, this became a routine of morning rituals - Descole leaving to work on the robot during the day and then returning to change the bandage in the evening. He knew that Clive was aware that there was a robot below them and he wanted this to be so. If he was focusing all of his attention on the fact that Descole was building something, he would continue to believe the lies that this contraption was a plan to get revenge on Layton that he wanted Clive's help upon.

In truth, while the robot was part of the plan, it had nothing to do with Layton. The robot had been just for Clive, to show him that he wasn't the only one to go to these sorts of lengths just to fool someone.

As the days turned into weeks, the newspaper coverage of Clive's escape lessened. It was always mentioned, in the 'if you have any information contact this number' sort of way, but there were no press reports from Scotland Yard. And, while he didn't expect any of Layton's antics to be reported at this stage, the radio silence was troubling.

Perhaps, he reasoned with himself, the letter had just not arrived in America yet. It could take this long to get there and even when it did, it would take longer still for Luke to get the message to Layton.

Weeks turned into months. That excuse held much less water with each passing day.

The letter should have got there, Luke should have contacted Layton and Layton should be miles ahead of solving the mystery. It didn't take that long to trace it back to where it had come from. Clive had even mentioned that he thought he was in a storehouse in the damn letter, if he needed anymore of the clue!

His patience was running thin at this point. He'd stopped his daily bandage changing some time ago, because the injury wasn't bleeding anymore, so there was less need to do so. Also, it lessened the amount of time he'd need to deal with his hostage. He wasn't even sleeping in the attic himself anymore, just going up there twice a day to make sure that Clive was still alive.

Sometimes, he began to question why that even bothered him anymore. Clive had just been a tool to get Layton involved. Descole had already demonstrated his superiority by bringing him here and keeping him hostage for so long, so what else did it matter what Clive though? He was not Layton. Layton was the only one that mattered.

Either way, Descole was going to prison at the end of all this. Therefore, it wasn't an issue whether or not Clive was breathing by the end of it.

Perhaps sensing that he was in some sort of danger, Clive attempted to reason with him on one of the times that Descole had refused to waste time feeding him.

"I can't help you if I'm dead!"

So this was the point where he finally gave up on his morals and agreed to help him, if only to stay alive. He was more useless now that he'd given in than he ever was before.

"Who says I want your help?" checked Descole.

"You did. You… brought me here because you wanted me to help you build whatever it is you're planning to throw at Layton," Clive answered, though there wasn't much conviction in his speech.

"I never said that," replied Descole. Since he'd reached the point where he wasn't sure if he should even keep his hostage alive, he'd well past the point of caring if he kept his plans hidden from him.

"But then why else would you bring me here?" asked Clive.

Descole growled, "If you haven't figured that out on your own, then you're not worth the resources I waste on you. My plan remains the same, regardless of whether you're dead or alive. The longer this game goes on, the more I sway in favour of the dead option."

Might as well be honest.

He watched as, slowly, realisation dawned upon Clive about his situation. It was a sick satisfaction to see the horror grow in his eyes.

"So you just wanted a hostage…? You just wanted someone to bring Layton here," Clive murmured, "That letter…"

"Yes, the letter that you used to invite him yourself," Descole confirmed, "How thoughtful of you to write to Luke, too, so in all likelihood the boy will come as well. I'll have both of them as my victims, all thanks to you."

Against all sensibility, he was enjoying taunting Clive.

"Layton hasn't come!" yelled Clive.

That was enough to grind the enjoyment to a halt. He didn't even want to think about that himself, let alone be reminded of it by someone else.

"No, he has not. And don't think that this matter doesn't pain me, after all the effort I've gone to," he said, after composing himself, "Either Layton doesn't care enough about you to help, which is rather disappointing for you, or else he's not smart enough to figure out the obvious clues left for him, which is disappointing for me. He is my greatest adversary and I had more faith in his intellect then that. The man has never failed to follow my trails of breadcrumbs in the past."

"Then I hope that he doesn't care enough to come," Clive proclaimed.

That was a laughable lie.

"You don't hope that at all. The one thing that we have in common is that we both want Layton to come here," replied Descole.

"We have something else in common, too," Clive corrected, "That we both know Layton's going to beat you."

This was too much. Descole found himself barging across the room towards his imbecilic hostage.

"Don't you dare! I have had years to plan my revenge on him and analyse every little mistake that I've made in the past!" Descole shouted, "Layton will not defeat me this time!"

He will. He will definitely defeat me, he told himself. He will come here to defeat me.

As if reading those thoughts, Clive cut in, "If he even bothers."

No! Don't ever stop to think that Layton doesn't care enough to come! Even if he's blocked you out of his mind completely, everything Clive did was too recent for him to ignore. He'll come for Clive, if not for you.

…That wasn't a comforting thought.

"He'll bother. If I have to hang your corpse out from the roof, he will come here!" roared Descole. Let's see him not care when the body of someone he failed to save is dangling in front of him!

Clive then asked perhaps his stupidest question so far, "Then why don't you just bring him here yourself, if you're that desperate."

"For the same reason that you told him he was in the future during your little game – because he has to work it out for himself. If he cannot do this, then he is not Hershel Layton," Descole answered. This was the truth. Perhaps the man had lost his skill and become someone who wasn't Layton. Perhaps he had given up caring enough to save one of his fellow people from danger and become someone who wasn't Layton. The only, only way that this could not be Layton's fault, without stopping him from being Layton, was if the letter hadn't reached him. And, while he hated the thought that maybe Layton couldn't follow the clues, it was possible that, for whatever reason, Luke hadn't given him any clues to follow. He needed to make a second attempt to know for certain; "Write one again. Write him another letter," he demanded.

"No!" screamed Clive.

"Of course you won't," growled Descole, "Fine then, I'll write him one on your behalf."

It was just another example of why he didn't need Clive and could simply act out his parts of the plan himself.

"You won't. For all the reasons that you just said," Clive cut in, "If you write him a letter yourself, that would mean he was unable to work out the first one you sent. Therefore he won't be good enough for you to destroy."

He wished that wasn't true.

"Yes, you're right," Descole admitted, "I will… wait a while longer before calling this whole ordeal a waste."

But Clive wasn't satisfied just with that answer.

"And then?" he prompted.

Descole spat, "What happens after that is not something that I need to discuss with my hostage."

"Very well."

He was surprised that Clive had given up this line of debate so easily, but he didn't bother to find out why. He just knew that he couldn't be here, being part of this conversation, right now. Anywhere else was fine, except for here.

As he stormed off down the ladder, he realised that anywhere else was not fine. If he went out into the village he would have to be Matherson and he didn't have the composure for that right now. Trapped by his own plot, Descole began hammering more of his machine into place. It wasn't the loving attention that his creation deserved, but then robots were not foolish enough to be blinded by pain. Robots would simply do what Descole designed them to do, without questioning his logic through their moronic, human doubts. They would be here if Descole made them be here. Not like Layton. Layton who didn't come. Layton who'd had plenty of time to figure all this out but hadn't managed.

With every strike of the hammer he just thought more and more about Layton. It became a maddening rhythm in his head. The metal seemed to groan in protest.

By the end of the day he had to stop. Partly for his own sanity, but more because the machine was now finished. There was nothing else that he could do with it unless he wanted to expand it outdoors.

Shaking with rage, he got to his feet and made his way back up the ladder to the room above.

He sat down on the floor next to Clive, not even looking at him.

"What would you have done if he hadn't come?" he questioned. After all, for all he was no where near in the same league as Descole, or worthy of any sort of attention from Layton at all for that matter, Clive had still written a letter, pleading for Layton to come to his underground London.

"I'd have gone through with it anyway," said Clive. And for a moment, Descole might have believed that he could see logic from him, if Clive hadn't followed that statement with, "The difference is that deep down I wanted him to save me from my madness."

There was no difference there. Not really.

Or maybe there was.

It was looking all the more likely that Descole had put his faith into someone who in actual fact did not care. Someone who was not worthy of that faith. Although Descole had always known that he hated Layton more than anyone, he now had a set in stone reason as to why he did.

"Layton needs to suffer," he said out loud.

Missing the reason completely, Clive argued, "For putting a stop to what you did in the first place? Why were you even doing any of those things to start with? It can't always have been to defeat him. He wasn't even famous in the beginning."

That was a reminder that Descole didn't need. That Layton hadn't been famous before him and wouldn't be famous without him. Maybe it hadn't always been about defeating Layton, but as soon as the Professor had been brought into the fold, Descole had nurtured his career until he wasn't needed anymore.

But he didn't want to debate this with Clive. All he wanted was… was…

"Layton needs to come here," he whispered.

"No, he doesn't," countered Clive, "And perhaps he doesn't care enough about either of us to-"

"Stop talking! Layton will come!" Descole screamed.

"Yelling at me about it won't- …What's that noise?" said Clive, craning his neck towards one of the boarded up windows.

There was a moment of silence in which they both listened and Descole had to admit that he could hear something, too.

"He's here! I told you that he'd come! Wait until you see the look on his face when he sees what I have in store for him!" he cried, triumphantly rushing towards the trap door. What he wanted to see was Layton stride into the storeroom, having figured it all out and ready to confront what Descole had undoubtedly prepared for him. But that was not what he got. He looked down the trap door in horror, "You're not Layton…"

"No, I most certainly am not. But I'm going to put a stop to you all the same," proclaimed that wrecked woman known as Emmy Altava. She had been Layton's assistant and Descole knew better than to stand idle when she was about.

Backing away from the hole turned out to be a good course of action, as he just managed to avoid being hit by Emmy as she jumped into the room dramatically. Everything was always over the top with her. She had none of Layton's composed flair.

As he continued to back up, Descole shot, "Why are you here? It should be Layton!"

Nothing would have been more insulting than knowing that Layton had run in circles while this woman had figured it out.

"Oh, he's here as well," Emmy replied, putting that worry to rest, "But he's rather too preoccupied with disarming that robot to come here himself. This would be the second time he's found one of your machines before the grand unveiling, would it not? Thank goodness your hostage kept you talking for long enough for him to get through the riddles you'd left on it."

The brat had been in on it!

He'd managed to call Layton while Descole wasn't there and tell him where to come. Then he had distracted Descole long enough so that Layton cripple the foundations of his plan.

There was nothing he could do to hold back his anger. Rounding on Clive, he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently.

"You set this up! Somehow you got in contact with Layton and arranged all this!" he accused.

For a moment, he hesitated at the look on Clive's face. Though he should have been terrified at what Descole could do to him, instead Clive's expression showed… pity?

It might have been enough to calm him down, if only out of confusion, had Emmy not then further fed the anger.

"Please," she snorted, sounding like she was standing behind him now, "That's a pretty pathetic straw to clutch at, even for you. The Professor figured out that letter all by himself, as soon as Luke got back to England. He knew that there was no way you'd still be in London, as there would be too much risk of getting caught. But since you didn't have much time, you can't have got too far away. Thank goodness for these storerooms, eh? It did seem like a rather suspicious for someone so disconnected from the industry to buy them like that. Thank goodness Inspector Chelmey is paranoid enough to keep hold of sales records."

Layton had figured it out. Just like Descole knew he would. Even if he'd done it through Scotland Yard, he'd still found out exactly where Descole was.

All the same, his pride couldn't shake off that this felt a little like cheating.

"Scotland Yard shouldn't even have records like that," he pointed out.

Raising an eyebrow, Emmy asked, "Are you going to beg that case at your trial?"

"I… there's still time…" he mumbled.

"There would be, if you had any help. Luckily for us, you were so worried about creating a witness that you don't seem to have any accomplices to fight the Professor, while you waste time up here," chimed Emmy.

"I'm never defeated that easily! Not after… not after planning for so long!" insisted Descole. Though at the moment he was having trouble remembering the details. He'd wanted Layton. Everything had been about getting Layton here. He hadn't foreseen any of the others.

"Did you plan for me? Or, in your single-mindedness, did you just plan for Layton?" enquired Emmy.

His fury at her figuring him out was quelled by then hearing the one voice that he'd been waiting for.

"Emmy, what's going on? Have you found them?"

Layton.

"No need to worry, he's right here. And so is his hostage," answered Emmy.

"Ah, that's good to hear," came the same voice.

After that, Descole watched as Layton hoisted himself through to the attic, with Luke following close behind him. But Descole did not care about Luke.

"Layton…"

That was who he cared about.

All the more saddening for him was when even now that the man was standing right in front of him, he still went completely ignored by him.

Layton instead turned to Clive and exclaimed, "My goodness! Clive, are you all right?"

"I'm… fine," assured Clive, seemingly oblivious to yet another act of theft that he'd just committed against Descole.

Someone else, however, wasn't going to ignore Descole. Sadly, it was not someone who Descole gave even one iota of interest towards.

"I suppose you have a few more tricks up your sleeves, Descole!" shot Luke, glaring across the room.

They were all looking at him now.

So, that was it. Layton hadn't confronted him, Emmy had. Layton hadn't been the one to ask about his plans, Luke had. The only reason Layton had even looked his way was because someone else had prompted him to.

Against all odds, Descole smiled.

It was over.

"I told you he'd come…" he said. This was directed to Clive, even if he was not looking at him. Because, why would he look at Clive when Layton was in the room?

"What are you talking about?" growled Emmy.

"…And he did," Descole concluded, throwing his arms into the air in a theatrical admission of defeat.

Ever one to state the obvious, Luke questioned, "Is he… surrendering, Professor?"

"It does look that way," mumbled Layton.

How very fitting. Layton wouldn't even speak directly to him, just about him.

"Very well, I'll apprehend him then," replied Emmy, as she marched towards Descole.

And to be taken away by the assistant? That also worked well with today's run of disappointing realisation that there were more people in this world than Hershel Layton.

"No!" called Clive. Descole's eyes widened in surprise behind the mask, as Clive went on, "No. It needs to be Layton who takes him away."

"But the Professor isn't as…" Emmy struggled to find a way to put this nicely, "Well, I'm better at restraining criminals than he is."

"He won't run from Layton," promised Clive.

After all that, the only person who understood was the hostage. How sickeningly perfect.

Emmy and Layton exchanged glances. It was clear that they had no idea what was going on. But, after coming to some silent conclusion that Clive knew what he was talking about, Layton took a step towards Descole.

"There's police surrounding the building, if he tries anything," Emmy reminded Layton, in case he had any thoughts that Descole would try anything.

"Duly noted. Now, if you'll be as kind as to untie Clive, while I'm gone," requested Layton.

"Of course," Emmy said.

Now anything that Emmy, Luke or Clive said was irrelevant, because Layton was the one who walked over and took hold of Descole. He had not spoken a word to him since arrived and he wouldn't be doing even as much as to take him away had it not been for Clive's intervention, but what mattered was that he was here.

Descole lowered his arms, allowing Layton to take hold of them from behind and lead him down the ladders.

At the bottom, Descole saw his now defunct robot. It was a sad sight. Although he'd never fully intended to use it, he hadn't treated the contraption well in its last few hours of life and now it would never know what it was like to be fully operational.

Looking past the robot, he saw that the door was being held open by a member of the police force, Inspector Chelmey, whose small assistant was hovering behind him in the same way that Luke always hovered behind Layton. Although Descole had never met Chelmey in person, he knew very well of the man. Nodding to Layton as if they were old friends, Chelmey let him walk Descole past and towards one of the vans they had ready.

Not a word had been spoken between them in that time.

At this point, Descole wasn't even sure if there needed to be any words.

Watching him be handcuffed and then helping him into the back of the van, Layton waved the small policeman away for a moment. Apparently, he had decided that there needed to be words.

"So, that's it over," he said, looking solemnly at Descole, "It was easier than I expected, but then I more than part suspect that this was a setup and you never fully intended to oppose me." He had figured it out after all. However very like Layton, to purposely drop his hopes by using other people to act on his behalf; "I'm disappointed that you dragged over people into this," he went on, "But I'm sure that Clive will recover. You, however…" Layton paused, trying to find the way to put it into words, "…Is this the end?"

"Yes," Descole confirmed, "This is the end."

"In that case, there's just one more thing to do," said Layton, "If I am to truly accept that the mystery of Jean Descole is over, please grant me this…"

He reached forward, placing his hand on the mask.

Descole neither nodded nor recoiled. As far as he was concerned, that was all the confirmation Layton needed that he saw him as worthy of seeing the truth. Regardless of whether he really was worthy or not.

It was hardest at this very moment to remain calm than it had ever been.

Gently, Layton pulled off the mask and saw, for the first time, the true face of Descole.

Hershel Layton had solved the mystery. Because no one else would have ever been allowed to solve it.


End file.
